𝙸 𝚠𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝙸 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍’𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚏𝚊𝚟𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚖𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚏𝚊𝚟𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚘𝚔 ;
𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚏𝚊𝚟𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚒𝚝 𝚋𝚢,
𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚠 𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜,
𝚊𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚒𝚙 𝚘𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚑𝚘𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚎 ; 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚐𝚕𝚎𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚙𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚜 ,
𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕 𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚒𝚝,
𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚏𝚘𝚡𝚎𝚍 𝚙𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚘𝚘𝚔 , 𝚊𝚗 𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚘𝚘𝚔 ;
𝚆𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚞𝚎𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢 ,
𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎’𝚜 𝚗𝚘 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚙𝚝𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝚒𝚝,
𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚞𝚖𝚞𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚋𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚏,
𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎, 𝚐𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚎 ;
𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝙸 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚠 , 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚢 𝚐𝚛𝚒𝚙 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚛;
𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚙𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 & 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚎 ,
𝙲𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚝𝚑 𝚒𝚜 , 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗 ;
𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝙸’𝚖 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚘𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚎 ;
𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚔 , 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚎𝚍 .
I wish for once I was his favourite thing that he would fear to lose , you know when you desire to be their last and forever kind of thing but I guess sometimes that’s not the plan and people move on . The sad truth .
